


Sunstroke

by Blake



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Massage, Mostly one idiot, Pining, Teasing, The Two Towers, but I love Legolas and Gimli's happy ending, ham-fisted hobbit movie references, i'm going to make that a real tag, internalized dwarf attraction phobia, leggy bleeds, namely Legolas, past legolas's inevitable crush on Thorin Oakenshield, past legolas/aragorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: There could be only one reason for the wasp-buzz under his skin, the world-spinning faintness, the uneasy flutter in his stomach.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 26
Kudos: 155





	Sunstroke

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first Gimli/Legolas! I hate comic-relief-dwarf Gimli, but I also love teasing, so I probably fell somewhere in between movie and book versions of these characters, but that's okay, because it's fan fiction and I can do what I want. It was so fun to write! Thanks for reading!

There could be only one reason for the wasp-buzz under his skin, the world-spinning faintness, the uneasy flutter in his stomach. There was only one element in this situation he was unused to. He was well used to running for hours without breaks. The loom of danger on the horizon was not new to him as it was to the younger members of his party, whose childhood portraits he may have once held in his already battle-rough, bow-callused warrior-prince’s hands. Nor could the nights without sleep exhaust him or paint his under-eyes in the same dark, weary color as Gimli’s had started to take.

It had to be the sun. It was the one thing which a lifetime spent under the protective canopy of impenetrable woods had not prepared him for.

“What’s this? The elf actually turns pink? And here I was, assuming that if the presence of Lady Galadriel could not bring blood rising to a person’s cheek, then there could certainly be no blood to speak of at all,” huffs Gimli, panting and sweating as they run side by side, as much mirth in his dark eyes as there is roughness in his voice.

There’s that dizzy feeling again. “It is the sun,” Legolas admits, looking away into the beams of light streaking the plains of Rohan. Once the words leave his mouth, he realizes how strange it is that he has so readily exposed his weakness, when this game he plays with Gimli seems to be founded on boasting the superiority of their respective inherited traits.

Naturally, his error seems to infuse Gimli’s voice with the delight of discovering a new weakness in a sparring partner. “Oh, so the innocent opal of a prince turns to rubies when he’s not under the protection of the trees!”

There’s that moth battering its wings against the walls of his stomach again. There’s something not quite right; he is no innocent prince, his skin has certainly seen more sunlight than Gimli’s has over the centuries, and his hands were callused long before Gimli was born, and yet he does not bring any of these arguments to his defense. He feels disoriented, bad at this game, helpless to do anything but let Gimli’s strong, steady teasing wash over him.

~~~

The symptoms do not fade once they meet the Rohirrim and are provided two horses to share; neither the sturdy presence of Gimli on Arod’s back behind him nor the grounding task of ensuring their mutual balance while riding negates the brightness of the sun on his face. Not even the wet, ancient shade of Fangorn nor the surprise of seeing Gandalf again manages to cool his cheek.

And all the while, even as they journey into Rohan, Gimli teases him and, in equal measure, praises the Lady of the Wood. Legolas cannot respond exactly in kind, for though he can tease Gimli, he cannot comfortably praise the only dwarven nobility he had ever met. Certainly, he has many thoughts about the dwarf king who had infiltrated his quiet kingdom, stood up to his father, saved his life, awoke in him a sense of rebellion and interest in the outside world that had long lay dormant, bore sea-storms of emotions in his eyes, had strong-looking arms, and a solid body, and a bristly beard that inspired curiosity in the calluses of Legolas’s hands which longed to be scraped open. But for some reason, he fears what he might unintentionally reveal about himself if he were to speak in praise of Thorin Oakenshield in contrast to his present company. He wonders at Gimli’s confident ability to sing songs of Lady Galadriel’s pale beauty, lithe strength, sapphire eyes and moonshine hair without fear of suggesting such admiration for Legolas’s similar features.

But of course, he realizes while dazed in the midday sun, admitting to fantasies of being held hostage and ruined by the rough hands of the King under the Mountain would say much more about him than could ever be said by Gimli’s lofty odes to a legendarily beautiful queen.

“You do not seem at ease, Legolas,” Aragorn says to him once they have reached Edoras and night has fallen.

Instead of naming the dozen troubles facing the lot of them, Legolas says, “I am dizzy and hot, and my stomach is caught in a twist. I think I am not used to the sun,” for he still feels the prickling burn of its touch at his temple and across his shoulder, even down his spine as he watches Gimli in the distance hauling a saddle.

“Ah yes, the sun.” Aragorn’s voice is stretched high by one of his enigmatic smiles. Legolas peers narrowly at him, daring him to disclose the source of his apparent amusement, but his old friend turns away to rifle through his pack. “Fortunately, we are safely housed for the night, and you can finally take time for some much-needed relief. Take this salve.” He hands Legolas a small jar of ointment which looks suspiciously familiar, a ghost from the days when the two of them had briefly coupled in Aragorn’s youth, when Legolas had thought that it might be light blue eyes, dark hair, and kingly lineage that he was attracted to.

Legolas narrows his eyes further, confused by the possibility that Aragorn might be suggesting they resume a facet of their friendship that they had long ago decided was not worth the trouble.

“It is a special salve, with healing herbs,” Aragorn claims, either ignorant or pretending to be ignorant of the nature of Legolas’s suspicion. “You should apply it to your back if you seek relief.”

Legolas opens the jar and smells no herbs, but he trusts his friend’s healing instincts better than his own. Strictly refusing to look around to see who else was in the stables to see and object, Legolas begins to lift his tunic up and hand the salve back over to Aragorn at the same time.

“Legolas,” Aragorn says with utmost seriousness and an undercurrent of tender fondness, staying him with a touch to his arm. “It will do no good applied by me. You need a stronger hand than mine.”

He follows the line of Aragorn’s gaze to find Gimli looking their way, and he suddenly feels fainter than ever.

~~~

Gimli initially blanches at the request, but a pleased smile shapes his beard when he hears that the request is being made because the treatment requires strong hands and his are the strongest hands in all of Edoras.

Legolas removes all but his leggings and lays himself face-down on his bed before he can think twice about the vulnerability of admitting his failings and putting himself literally in the hands of the person who has shown the most interest in exploiting his weaknesses for humor’s sake. Unfortunately, Gimli moves slowly enough that Legolas has time to think thrice on the subject before the first touch even lands on his back. Even worse, thinking thrice on the subject sends Legolas into a perverse fever of the blood, and he feels himself growing hard against the straw mattress.

Then Gimli’s hands touch the bare skin of his back, and Legolas melts into a shivering puddle. His mind goes blank-white as the noon sun. His flesh quivers with life, the world spins, and his stomach swoops low. His ailment is not getting better, it’s getting worse, which can mean only one thing: the thing he has tried not to look at directly, and still might be able to avoid, if he tries hard enough.

Gimli gasps above him, and it’s only then that Legolas realizes how silent he has been. Then he feels the tremor in Gimli’s touch, though his hands are wide and firm in their reach as they glide up and down his back. Perhaps having realized the same things, Gimli clears his throat and then, voice hoarse despite his efforts, says, “Smooth as tumbled stone.” Then, “Supple as a softened bow.”

It is only because these words are spoken like his odes to Galadriel that Legolas gathers the courage to ask for what he wants so deeply it might break him to have it. “Surely you can be firmer than that. Use leverage. I shall not break.”

“Aye, I know,” Gimli sighs, his touch softening even as he adds, “You are stronger than you look.” His weight shifts, and then there is a blissfully heavy pressure at the base of Legolas’s spine, where Gimli’s hips are spread across him. Legolas bites his own hand where his chin has been resting, overwhelmed with the truth of how badly he wants Gimli’s body against his. Just when Legolas is about to berate himself for using his friend so inappropriately and without consent and to push Gimli away, he hears the words, “Strong enough to withstand a little bit of sunshine.”

Only then does Legolas allow himself to look directly at the source of his ailment, for hope opens up ways of seeing that never seemed possible before. He turns his head, looking over his shoulder to see Gimli’s soft, awed expression. “You speak of me as you would of Galadriel,” he ventures with the smile of someone on the brink of discovery, at the crest of a tall hill blindly scaled and looking down at a valley so long sought it was nearly forgotten.

Gimli’s sure fingers find his cheek. The caress draws blood hotly to its surface, blinds Legolas with desire, renders him helpless to do anything but seek out the rough pads of Gimli’s palm with his mouth and kiss it. “Perhaps I speak of Galadriel as I would of you,” Gimli whispers, molding Legolas’s lips under the splay of his hand.

In one swift, easy movement, Legolas manages to dispel his sun-weakness and flip onto his back with Gimli still astride his waist. He curls up halfway and cautiously, reverently delves his fingers into soft hair and stiff beard. He searches those dark eyes by candlelight and finds worlds with them, finds every feeling he has reflecting back at him in rings of earth-rich brown. “It is not the sun that lights by body aflame,” he confesses. The hand on his cheek slides back behind his head, and Legolas lets his eyes fall closed to the light of getting what he most desires as Gimli meets him in a kiss.

If ever a sun was involved, it must be the one exploding in Legolas’s chest in this moment. He gives himself over completely to the pleasure of tasting Gimli’s eager tongue, of exploring the texture of his beard against his face and against the inside of his lips, of feeling Gimli’s sighs and moans like earthquakes in his jaw.

Of feeling Gimli bear down on him, settling his body quiet between the bed and his chest like a pressed flower, making him feel the joy of each breath in his lungs. 

It is over far too quickly—Gimli’s knee pinning his thigh up and open, splitting him apart just to rut down against, too much clothing between them but too much impatience to do anything about it, and all Legolas can do is flex his arms in Gimli’s searching grip and twist his free leg around Gimli’s hips to grind their bodies deeper, closer, better, and then gasp violently as he lets go, one hand groping to fist in Gimli’s chest hair while a reverent mouth bites and sucks at the base of his neck—and still, the world spins around Legolas’s dizzy head, but it feels as though it’s supposed to be that way, as though he has only finally aligned his life with the energy of the universe.

Gimli’s lips and beard drag across the tender mark his mouth just made. “Red as rubies.”

Legolas pulls him up tight and close in a fierce, unyielding embrace, intending to never let go.


End file.
